Hands Like Secrets (the hardest things to keep from you)
by HopefulVoice
Summary: Stories of one Elizabeth Keen.


**A/N:** I… I don't even know, guys. I sit down to write fluff and this comes out instead. It's a bit of an odd one. Would love to hear what you think :]. Liz centric, with Lizzington.

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Elizabeth Keen was born somewhere, at some point. She had a childhood, which leads to an adolescence. Certain things happened in her lifetime, other certain things did not. She has sordid misadventures, misadventures so sordid, in fact, to even attempts to translate them into the human language would be a barbaric injustice.

That's…no. That's bad, we're trying this again.

Elizabeth Keen lives in squares, rectangles, with right angles. She defines, defines, defines. She sharpens away, she doesn't hide behind blurs; her world is black and white because grays only appear when a person doesn't look close enough to see which bits are white and which are black; to figure out the absolute truth; there is always an absolute truth, even if no one is smart enough to figure it out.

Jesus Christ that's boring, boring, bad, boring.

Elizabeth Keen has been in serious relationships with three men, she has memorized three separate sets of flesh and thoughts and fears and favorites, she has shared nights, shared secrets and shirts and books, and moments, three separate men in neat rotation as her highest priority, her soul mate, her commitment, her obligation, three separate men have

Elizabeth Keen is an addict. Highs and lows entirely of the mind, control and a loss of it. Elizabeth Keen holds a man by his neck as they fuck against the wall, she tangles her hands in his hair, she makes pale skin red with teeth and rushed fingers. Elizabeth Keen grips his shoulders tightly, she also brushes against his cheeks softly, says his name gently, she also pulls him closer, because he seems so fragile in this moment and Jesus, she's sure she'll break him, and they are both shaking. And she never, ever, ever lies on her back and gives herself up until she does.

Elizabeth Keen allows. She must tell herself this, it is a fundamental step in staying sane. Elizabeth Keen permits and steps aside. She does not surrender or

Elizabeth Keen was twelve when she fell from that treehouse in the backyard and cracked her leg in two perfectly good, all right pieces (really. Just the bone, the rest of her leg was fine, a fully functioning mass. Nothing but the stick running down the near center has snapped. There's a metaphor there, somewhere); she told him, she _told _her dad that the floorboards were weak and splintering, and Sam said "huh" and did not look up from the paper, and maybe Elizabeth Keen did it herself, picked and picked and stomped at that space in the floor until it gave, but her father certainly wouldn't know that. But her father would certainly know that Elizabeth Keen wasn't a liar, didn't _pester _for no reason.

Elizabeth Keen comes hardest when it's those hands, you know the ones. They are two parts: one part busy laughingly manipulating the FBI, holding all the cards and all the control, and the other part digging here, poking, prying, forcing the little information he doesn't know to come to light. Anyway, yes, when it's those hands, because they play everything, everyone, and there's that moment

That moment, it's always there.

Elizabeth Keen wakes up early for three weeks, crack of dawn early because

Elizabeth Keen's neighbor had a bike, and he had a paper route, and he promised twenty buck a week (four comics, two bottles of Pepsi, five bags of gummies, and a push pop at the gas station - it's only two blocks down, it feels longer cause of the hill) to Elizabeth Keen if she were to complete this paper route, on this bike. The bike was a little big, but Elizabeth Keen woke up early for three weeks, on the crack (snap, pop? No, no, sliver, _shaving _of dawn, the thinnest stripe of purple against the dark, dark blue and stars) at dawn, and she went down to the curb (this was the easiest way to get on the bike, it gave Elizabeth Keen about a foot more of height, and she could kick her leg over, settle on the seat, and push off the curb.) It was hard to balance, at first, with the huge stack of papers, but the longer she went, the fewer papers there were, and the longer she went, the stronger she got.

That moment, because those hands. She _can't _tell herself, not with those hands- Anyway, Elizabeth Keen's neighbor didn't even give her the money. It took her three weeks (three pay days) to realize that she wasn't getting twelve comics, six bottles of Pepsi, fifteen bags of gummies, three push pops at that gas station - really, it's much faster on the way back, she doesn't even have to pedal, just sail right into their driveway.

It's just when the hands have had their fun, this isn't something she's _allowing, _it's not _permitted _and she hasn't _stepped aside_; those hands are frank and they don't care for excuses or whatever lies Elizabeth Keen has fed herself. She can't

Elizabeth Keen is sure she was not the only second grader ever to forget her lines (it was an _easy _one, though. _When Hubert was a young snail, he often got in trouble! _It was the easiest to remember, she had _wanted _the tougher one, the one that went, _Forgetting that he was a snail, he did things on the double! _How could she have forgotten? but she _did, _and oh, they all _stared, _and they all waited, and the music kept going, her line was over, and, and they. _Were all staring, _and it was too late to do anything, and, she ruined it, she ruined the whole thing, and her classmates were staring too) and she's sure she could have gotten over it, laughed about it, but her father liked to bring it up, how she ran off the stage in tears, because isn't that the cutest thing you've ever heard? So she just smiles and she can't even remember anymore, but

But anyway. Anyway, Elizabeth Keen has no more stories or smiles or lies to tell when the hands are finished. It's here, and it's now and

Elizabeth Keen has

Elizabeth Keen

Elizabeth Keen might

There are issues with giving in, and they might belong to someone.


End file.
